


Anatomy

by welove1stickyboi



Category: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Hhgn, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, n so do i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 15:14:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16518923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welove1stickyboi/pseuds/welove1stickyboi
Summary: i.  got thinking about the soul stone.  and also i was sad so. here u go here's some sad





	Anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> it's a short boi. also Peter isn't mentioned by name

He's blank.

 

There's tiny, round balls of plastic rolling in his stomach. Occasionally, one of them is sharp. It feels like he's being pricked by static. It's a not-quite ache, one that sucks at his energy.

 

He spares a hand to wrap around his middle, and continues.

 

Continues what? Every interaction is cardboard, every word that comes out of his mouth is thoughtless, autopilot. Life is happening behind a thick sheet of glass, and he watches with an apathetic eye. The glass is not beaten upon by frenzied fists, not kicked, no attempt made to get past it. He sits, and he watches. That's all.

 

His ribs are a cage. From the bars hangs thread upon thread, looped and strung where his lungs are supposed to thrive. In the center of the threads rests a grey stone. The strands strain under its weight. His lungs are tangled, twisted up in the strings. Each breath isn't real.

 

The glass is thick, and his heart is heavy.

 

Each step jolts him, pushing a rolling pin into his grey play-dough brain. He thinks only in temperatures - it is far too cold. But he can't bring himself to want to be warm again.

 

He's nothing but a newspaper person. _Grey, grey, grey_ . His limbs are flimsy, and something crackles, crinkles, _rips_ , maybe, in him, but it doesn't mean anything. He doesn't move unless he needs to. The newspaper person is a puppet without strings. Strings in the right place, anyway.

 

(He still can't breathe.)

 

There's a pulling behind his eyes. It warns of something about to snap. A barricade, maybe. He knows that, behind the barricade, something pink and throbbing and warm itches to burst free. He can't let it.

 

Stretch out your hand. Make your fingers as wide as they go. Now make the tightest fist imaginable.

 

Can you feel your nails dig into your palm? Can you feel the tendons in your wrist shaking? Your fingers aching?

 

This is him.

 

But what is he? Who is he?

 

He's blank.

 

It's so cold.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry????


End file.
